On writing

Cataract

he has the eyes of a writer
keen and cagey
waiting for some threshold
to fall
the exhausted flowers
blooming
against a red sunset
more worlds to collide
with the power of pen

he has the eyes of a writer
buried in his cataracts
a pupil of thought
for a sight dilated
marked by his madness
cradled by his salvation
dimmed unwanted and hopeless
worthless to the wandering eye
set in his sculpture
the one inch of creation
denied by the unaware

as a writer he is tragic
no difference even if he didn’t write.

Write living

Seems distant to believe
We grow no more
Just endure
velvet stars
in moonless night
Write living
Focus my energy for attitude
To change to grow
Vicious moments lost in time
And I awake everyday
On a mattress with no sheet
In the soft hum of rain
And cars beating into pavement
To crack the window
Is to endure
Write living
Cardboard notes left to rust
Cold and rough
A paper cut
A nail that is red, irritated
By the exposure of daylight
In this existence
Write living
Focus your energy for altitude
Above forgotten wind
Creeping past us in a vacant lot
I will cut my chin
Against the frozen wind
And endure
It is what was trained
To keep writing alive.

lonely soul warrior

lonely soul warrior
bent over a pint
listening to old jazz
that hits the pavement
echoing the hard
pellets of rain
lonely bearded
soul warrior.
inside the minds
of others
shrieking at dissidence
like it was a stranger,
a con man of clowns.
lonely bearded cradled
soul warrior
to the dream of himself
locked in a cabin
surrounded by
vinyl and whiskey
girls that dance
to no music.
lonely soul warrior
bent to the straightness
of the world
so suddenly and rash
we smoke the hash
pent up residue for
the masses.
lonely soul warrior
scribbling away fancy
writing
for the trench madness in us all
face tilted to the lights
pen deep in ink
eyes wandering
landscaping the terrain
of this dubious shelter.

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